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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776450">Lost Stories Stuffed Between the Shelves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingpinepples/pseuds/screamingpinepples'>screamingpinepples</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), Character Death, Original Character(s), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:42:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingpinepples/pseuds/screamingpinepples</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened to all the other 'real' statements? Some fell down between the shelves, got lost in boxes, were purposefully forgotten. </p><p>A collection of miscellaneous original statements. Both serious and not. explorations of what experiences would look like translated into statement form, as well as my own curiosity about writing horror.<br/>No narrative or plot, just short stories.</p><p>I will update tags as I go</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Wide Open Plains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wide Open Plaines<br/>
Statement of Jessica Smith, Originally given 2015</p><p>I was driving home from school to visit my parents for winter break. Just me, seemingly half my stuff, and my small reliable old civic. I go, or, went really to school in Virginia. I’m taking a gap year. Thinking about transferring to somewhere… out west. I grew up in Colorado, so I guess I'm more used to how things work out west? I really just don't want to drive across the country again, at least not on my own.</p><p> I guess I should get to the point. Driving home, I was going through what a lot of people call ‘flyover country’. The midwest, the great plains. Vast, wide-open spaces populated only by the occasional herd of antelope or deer, the occasional run-down farmhouse, and a lone horse or herd of cows. The tallest thing growing being the tall corn stalks, but it's usually short rows of soybean bushes. When I was driving through, there weren't any crops growing. Snow-covered the wide expanses of fields, though you could still see the dips where the furrows would be in the summer. I always loved looking at the stripes these made when I drove through them before, but now I get nauseous at the thought. Can barely look at stripes at all anymore…</p><p> Anyway...there's a running joke in the US that Nebraska is the most boring state, and it does make sense. Right in the middle of the great plains, so flat that it seems like you could see forever. Barely anyone around. Boring. And it all looks exactly the same. The handful of times I've driven through it before...well, before the last time, have been proven to be uneventful. It lived up to its reputation. I was always reminded when I drove through it how big it was, and how it all looked the same. It all looks the same. I can’t get those damn empty fields out of my head. </p><p>	...I’m sorry, I keep getting….lost. Let me start over a bit. I was somewhere in Nebraska. I’m not sure where the middle? It was early evening, and I couldn’t see any other cars on the road, but I was comfortable. I’ve always liked road trips. I've always been able to get lost staring out the window, even while driving. I was listening to some podcast, maybe about ghosts? Or true crime? Something like that. I wasn’t paying attention, to be honest, lost in the same-ness of the countryside around me. I wasn’t really paying attention to the road either. I know...I know that sounds bad. But I had checked and the road was almost supernaturally straight, and like I mentioned there weren’t any cars around me. So I let myself stare into the empty fields, absorbed by the stripes in the snow. That’s probably why I didn’t realize that my podcast had stopped. It shouldn’t have. I had downloaded enough episodes so I wouldn’t have to worry about my service going out, and the podcast app had never crashed on me before. When I realized that it had stopped, I was pulled fully out of my reverie, and I pulled over to get it back on. I think I was so annoyed at having to go through the hassle to get my background noise back that I didn’t realize that things seemed...wrong. I’m...I’m not sure how to explain it, really. I just know that when I tried to get to my podcast, my phone wouldn't let me.</p><p> I had been using my phone for navigation, and I could tell that the screen wasn’t frozen. I could move the map around, zoom in and out. I idly zoomed out, figuring that my phone was just taking a while to reorient itself and think about things. That’s when it hit me, I think, that something was wrong. When I zoomed out, no matter how far I went, the map stayed the same. No new cities showed up, no new landmarks. Even when I had zoomed out enough that I should’ve been staring at the entire US, my phone still showed the same straight road, and the small dot that was my car. I tried again to close out of the map, but yet again my phone was stuck on this empty expanse of a map. I got out of my car then. Maybe if my phone was acting up, I could hail someone else on the road, get their help. Maybe I could even see a nearby farmhouse, walk across a field and get a nice cup of coffee while I reorient myself. </p><p>	I walked all the way around my car, looking in every direction. But as I looked around, the hope in my chest dwindled. As far as I could see was nothing more than dead farmland, striped in icy snow. Not even a scraggly tree broke the view. I remember very clearly looking towards the horizon and not being able to distinguish where the snowy fields ended and where the sky began. The sky itself was an expanse of grey, not dark or threatening, just a consistent cover of light clouds. That was the reason why the horizon was so hard to distinguish. Because the color of the sky was so similar to the snow. Of course, it was, there isn’t any other explanation. But I knew… I know. That wasn't it. I somehow knew that...That the fields went all the way around. I don't know, I really don't know. How do I explain this without sounding crazy? I guess I’m already past that.</p><p> I looked around again, trying to find some aspect of what I could see that was distinct from everything else. Some small landmark, a tiny bush, a pile of snow, anything that wasn't exactly the same as everything else. This was the same country I had been driving through for hours, exactly the same. I slumped then, back against my car, staring into the sky, trying to find the horizon. I figured that If I could find that, then I would have somewhere to go. I stared into the sky, into the fields, for...for...for a good long time. I...I don't know how long. Too long. I eventually closed my eyes, pulling my knees up to my chest, and leaning back even more into my car. It was cold, but not uncomfortable. I found myself thankful that my car was there, as a stable, steady, grounding object that differentiated the directions.</p><p> As...As soon as I thought that, as soon as I found that tiny flash of hope, I found myself falling over backward. Startled, I sat up, whipping my head around. I.... I was in the fields now. My car was…. My car was gone. The road too. I was in that ...endless field. No sense of direction, no sense of place, or even time. I was settled in an endless sky, that might have also been a field. I think I cried then, I’m probably crying now just thinking about...about being there again. I...god, I knew then that whatever was going on, whatever had...had got me. That it meant me harm. That it didn’t want me to feel any hope? That scared me, knowing that there was ...something… something else. But that it was leaving me in this place. That it had put me here, intentionally. In that wide, wide-open space. Wide-open spaces, that...I think that’s a saying, or a quote or something. Wide-open spaces. I don't think whoever said that really knew what it meant. To be the tallest thing for as far as you can see, standing tall above the dead lines of old crops, to be the only thing with any color. The feeling of being so alone, so insignificant and small, but also the feeling of being trapped, being the only thing of any note. That...contradiction. I felt so incredibly small. How do you feel anything else in what seems like an endless sky, an endless snowy field? But that endlessness….It… it made me feel trapped. Almost claustrophobic. That sounds ridiculous, I know, trust me I know. But if everything looks the same, if there’s nothing but you, How can you not feel trapped?</p><p>	I walked. I walked along one of the furrows. Part of me knew that it wouldn't help, but it was better than nothing. I didn’t even try to keep track of time, that part I knew for sure would be fruitless. I didn’t even think about much, I mainly just stared ahead towards where the horizon should’ve been. It's funny, I think...I think what pulled me out of wherever I was, was the thought that my plant was going to die. It was in my car, a scraggly basil plant. I had prided myself on keeping it alive, even named it. Henrietta. I realized at some point that it was going to die in my car, and I guess this realization was so strong that it...brought me back? I nearly got hit by a tractor. I don't even know if it was a tractor, just...some big farm equipment. I didn't care at that point. I jumped out of the way, and the farmer driving it stopped and came to make sure I was ok. It took me about an hour...to get to the point where I was able to talk. I hadn’t said anything for so long that I think I almost had forgotten how. Or maybe it was the shock. Either way, she helped me get my bearings. My car was only a mile away. </p><p>	I had my friend facetime me the entire way back to my parents. I made it there, terrified the entire way. I blasted music, sang loudly, anything to keep from spacing out. Took the long way back to school.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Arachibutyrophobia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Statement of Eliott O'Gallagher, regarding the death of his roommate. Given January 2018.</p><p>CW: descriptions of choking; food; character death</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arachibutyrophobia<br/>Statement of Eliott O'Gallagher, regarding the death of his roommate. Given January 2018.</p><p>Statement Begins</p><p>Arachibutyrophobia. God, that's a fuckin mouthful. Sorry, am I allowed to swear? I’ll try not to, no promises, what happened...what I saw...it was messed up. Anyways, Arachibutyrophobia. It's the phobia of choking on peanut butter, or more specifically? Of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth. Peanut butter. I...I know that the whole thing about phobias is that they don’t make sense, they’re….irrational or whatever. I don’t really care, it was funny to me. Hilarious. How could anyone be afraid of peanut butter? I understand now, hell, I share their fear. I think it’s incredibly rational. </p><p>Anyway… the reason I know about the phobia in the first place is that my flatmate has- I guess...I guess it would be had. My flatmate had it. I can’t remember how it came up, maybe one of the nights we were out drinking with friends? It doesn't really matter, but afterward, we wouldn't let it go. We all teased him about it, who wouldn’t? He was scared of peanut butter, peanut butter. He was a good sport about it, I think he realized how silly it was too, or something like that.  He even joked back about it, so none of us felt too bad teasing him. It was an inside joke with all of us for a while, though a couple of months ago people stopped bringing it up. I don’t know why I kept at it. Maybe it was cause I was the one living with him, maybe I just felt like taking... I don't know, taking something out on him. I was never mean, but I wouldn't let it go either. I wish I’d let it go. Somewhere in my mind, I knew that I should, and I had been fully intending to...until...</p><p>I just had to get one last jab in, didn’t I?</p><p>I could tell that it wasn’t funny anymore, but when I saw that cookbook I knew that I had to get in this one last joke. I saw it through the front window of a small bookstore. Dilapidated didn't even start to describe the place, but I… other than that I don't really remember it all that well. Can’t even remember the name. But somehow I spotted the small orange book from the window and it pulled me in. ‘101 things to do with peanut butter!’ in big, overly cheery letters, and I just couldn't help myself. Christmas was coming up and I figured that a gag gift would be fun. Then I would drop this whole joke. I didn’t even read it, just stomped into the shop, grabbed the book, and barely stopped to pay before getting out of there. I thought it would get at least a chuckle from Aaron. Arron Pope, if you need his full name. Even if the joke was getting old, I figured that he’d appreciate a funny gift. The last hurrah before I finally let the joke die. </p><p>	When he opened it I was satisfied by the small chuckle he gave. That was enough for me, and I told him as such, saying that I’d finally drop it. I expected something at that, maybe a thank you, or even just a nod. But Aaron had opened the book, flipping through it. He had settled on a page near the front, and while I couldn't see the page itself, Aaron was absorbed. I tried to initiate a conversation, but he was gone. It was weird, sure, but I didn’t think too much of it? Aaron had always been a little quiet, bookish, nerdy, that kinda shit. Quite a bit different than myself, but we didn't bother each other, and living together wasn't bad. I wrote the sudden change of mood off as him being tired of the jokes and I left him in his room. I didn’t worry too much. My boyfriend, Jeffrey Milner, was throwing a party that I needed to be at soon, and I had other things on my mind than a flatmate who was probably just tired. I hadn’t invited Aaron, I don't think it would've been his scene, so I left him alone at the flat.  </p><p>	The party was great, had a blast and all that, and I stayed over. I got back to my own flat by early afternoon the next day, I had helped Jeff clean up and we hung out a bit after. My flat was quiet. Not unusual, but throughout the rest of the day I didn't see Aaron at all. I figured that he might have gone out, so I didn't think too hard about it. The flat looked the same as when I had left it, though it was a little strange that there weren’t any dishes in the sink. Maybe Aaron had gone out last night and hadn’t been back since, or maybe he had actually put his stuff away. Either way, I didn't see him the rest of that night. I didn't see him the next day either, but it was the day after that when I decided to check in with him. I guess it might've been a dick move to wait that long, but like I said before, Aaron was a quiet dude, a bit of a loner. Maybe that should have tipped me off sooner, but I had just figured that he’d either gone out or that I had just missed him in the flat. He always did like his space. </p><p>I texted him a couple times, then after a couple hours of no response, I called him. The phone started ringing and I nearly jumped when I heard his ringtone start up. Muffled by his door. He had been in his room. Maybe he just hadn’t seen my texts? But he didn’t pick up. Had he gone out without his phone? It wasn’t...it wasn't any of that, but my mind was rattling off any explanation. I think I was properly scared by this point. Sure, Aaron was a loner, but he wasn’t invisible. I would have noticed him at some point in the three days since I gave him that book, or at least noticed signs of him. I got over to his door, knocking maybe a little too hard on it. I waited, but nothing. I didn't hear anything on the other side of that door. Not a damn thing. There was...there was something though. A faint smell of something that I couldn't quite place, sweet, heavy. I took a breath and opened the door. I nearly got knocked off my feet by the stench of...of peanut butter. I nearly hurled just from that, it was so strong, but it was Aaron that really sent me. I had to sprint to the bathroom. I couldn’t see his face from where he was sitting slumped in the middle of his room. But I could see the corner of the open cookbook I had given him, open to a page near the back. And surrounding him...surrounding him were jars of peanut butter. I didn't count them but there were….there were too many. I… god, I have no idea where he got them. He hadn’t touched the jar that I had, I knew that. I threw that jar away later. No, he...he must've gone out and bought them. He must've. I knew that he was dead. I think that’s what made me hurl. The way that he was slumped over was...it was unnatural. I didn't need to go back to check, after puking my guts out. I didn't need to check. But I did. I went back into his room, covering my nose and mouth with my shirt that was too thin… It couldn't block out everything. The air was...it was thick. It felt like an indoor swimming pool, thick humid air that you can practically taste. </p><p>I...I know it sounds insane, all of this sounds like I’m making it up, having a prank, whatever. But god, when I walked through that room it felt… I could SWEAR that I could feel….could feel SOMETHING filling my throat, in my lungs, in my mouth. Thick, sticky, cloying, dense. It felt...the air itself felt like peanut butter. I’m sure that it was just because the smell of the stuff was everywhere, obviously. But I could feel myself start to gag, not just because of the sickeningly sweet smell, but because it felt like my throat was closing up. I could feel my tongue sitting heavily in my mouth, pressed to the roof of my mouth. It felt too big, it felt like it was stuck there, it felt…. It felt like there was peanut butter….sticking it to the roof of my mouth. I know it was just the smell in the air, but I felt like I could actually taste the peanut butter in my mouth. It took all my self-control to not open it up and scrape the roof with my fingers, but even so, I forced my tongue to scrub at it, fighting the panic when I thought I felt...felt something in there with my tongue. </p><p>The air was hard to breathe too, and the closer I got to Aaron the more it felt like I couldn't get a full lungful of air. I started to panic at this, starting to hyperventilate. That probably didn’t help. But for some reason, I kept going. I walked until I came around the front of Aaron. I think I nearly passed out then. It’s a bit of a blur from that point on, though I do remember calling the police and being escorted out of my flat as they came to...I don't know, do damage control or something. I remember his open mouth and his nose. They were full. I think you can guess what with. And I remember the spoon, with a spoonful of the stuff, stuck into his mouth. He had choked himself on a truly copious amount of peanut butter. Asphyxiation by peanut butter. The police ruled it a suicide. What else would they have said happened? </p><p>	I've tried to forget. Tried to forget that this is probably my fault because I got him that damn book. I don't know how, but I KNOW that it had everything to do with what happened to Aaron. I know how crazy I sound, but I know that book MADE him do what he did. I still wake up gasping, not being able to breathe because I feel like my nose, throat, mouth, lungs are filled with peanut butter. I don't think I'll be able to have peanut butter again. I think I get why people are so terrified of the stuff now.</p><p>Statement Ends</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey Y'all! <br/>I've decided that I'm not going to have a set or specific post schedule, but I'm going to try to post every couple of days. <br/>I hope you enjoy this! It started out as not entirely serious, but now? I'm not sure. I do know that I won't be having peanut butter for a while lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Socially Distant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Socially Distant<br/>Statement of Aria Jones regarding a party she attended. Statement taken September 2013.</p><p>CW: alcohol/ drinking mention, Canon typical Lonely content</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Socially Distant<br/>Statement of Aria Jones regarding a party she attended. Statement taken September 2013.</p><p>Statement Begins.</p><p>I’m not totally sure where to begin here? Maybe a bit about me first, yeah? Give a bit of context to...all this. Yeah, that’ll work. I’m Aria. Aria Jones. God, I sound like a...a depressed James Bond. I’m not even that cool though. Kind of the opposite actually? I’m quiet, I keep to myself. I have maybe three close friends? And while I’ve met them in person, we mainly keep in touch online. Met them through games, and we mainly just play together. Sure, I've got people I talk to in real life, but they’re… I think of them as acquaintances. People who I’ll make a bit of small talk with, and who I know basic, surface-level things about, but who I don't really vibe with? Whenever I run into one of them they always seem a bit surprised. Not that we ran into one another, but more like they’d forgotten about me, and were surprised to remember. I honestly can’t blame them. </p><p>	Anyway, all that being said, I don’t actively cut myself off. I’m usually open to talking with people I know, even hanging out. So when I got a Facebook message from one of the people I know there, asking if I wanted to come to his party I was surprised, but not immediately put off about it? I actually don’t remember how I met him. I’m sure I went to school with him, or maybe worked an old job with him sometime. Either way, the acquaintance, Brian Lukas, messaged me and asked if I wanted to stop by a party he would be having. I can’t remember if there was a specific occasion, I’d have to look back at the message. Now, even though I said before that I’m open to being social, I don't really ‘do’ parties. I think I’ve been to two or three in total? I left all of them early, and never had much fun, though I appreciated the invite. I know that it's a way to get to know people, but the environment felt the opposite of welcoming to me. I would feel like I needed to stick by the people I came with, and if I was left on my own I’d feel so incredibly alone, intimidated by everyone else having a good time around me. My friends would always find me standing in a corner, trying not to think about how little phone battery I had left. I guess I’d forgotten about that though.</p><p>	I figured that this would be an opportunity for me to get out of the house, meet up with an old acquaintance, maybe get some food or have a drink or two. I decided that I’d head home early, and I went in content with the thought that I’d have an escape plan. </p><p>	When I showed up, it all seemed perfectly normal. A house with blaring music, not loud enough that I could feel it in the base of my teeth a block away, but still loud enough to be obnoxious. People were streaming in, some already on the front lawn playing corn hole and beer pong. I felt a bit self-conscious going in, but I almost immediately saw Lukas. It was then that I realized that he was the ONLY one I knew at this party and that I’d be sticking with him the whole time. Lukas greeted me cheerfully enough and talked with me for about a minute. As we talked, I felt...I don't know, I guess disoriented is the best way to describe the feeling? It was a quiet sort of feeling, almost comfortable. I could ignore it, but I could still feel it. Something was there.</p><p>	I talked with Lukas for a minute or two, as we walked over towards one of the corners of the room, where there was a bit more space. Once we got there, Lukas gave me a nod and said something about getting a drink, and if I wanted anything. I agreed, mainly out of a sense of obligation, and watched as he made his way through the crowd. The minute I couldn’t see him, things felt...they felt different. I could still feel the heat of the people moving around me, I could still see and hear them, I could still smell the alcohol and sweat in the air, but I felt detached. It felt as though I was staring at a scene on tv, surrounded by soft static in the air, cottony and a bit blurry. I almost felt cold. I think I actually did. There were people surrounding me on all sides, talking, laughing, and dancing with one another. But it felt like I was thousands of miles away from anyone else. I felt so entirely alone, more alone than I ever had. I was in the middle of a loud, busy party, surrounded by people, people who were there to talk and meet people. I’m sure they would’ve talked to me. </p><p>	I stumbled a little, feeling something worm its way into my chest. Cold, like a fog spreading through my limbs. I made my way through the busy, crowded rooms, looking around, and somehow not touching anyone else, despite the tightly packed crowd. Everywhere I looked, there were closed groups of friends, or couples making out. Everyone had someone...except me. I looked for another loner, if not to make conversation but to just...be alone together. To know that there was someone else who didn't have anyone. It felt like the house was endless. Sure, from the outside it was a big house, but it wasn't this big. I don’t think that registered with me at the time though, my mind was taken up by a… a fog of panic. I stumbled around the first floor, looking for an entrance into a group, or someone handing drinks out, or...or Lukas. I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be waiting for him. I guess I should've felt… I don't know, guilty for leaving him hanging like that? But at the moment I was too panicked, too scared to be able to think about that. I started trying to look for a way out, to be able to breathe again. The air around me felt...it felt thick and too cold. Why did it feel so cold? It should've been cloying, sweaty. There should've been overwhelming smells, there should've been music that was just a little too loud. But that all...it felt far away. It was there, but it was faded. That made me feel...feel even more isolated. Not only was I alone, the only one who didn't have a friend or a partner to talk to, but I couldn't even be a part of the atmosphere of the party. </p><p>	I felt so utterly alone. In the back of my mind, I figured that I would try to make my way back to where I had been left. I don't even think I made it back to the exact room, I just...slumped into a corner. I was hunched over my phone, and I thought that if I could message a friend, or at least scroll mindlessly it would take my mind off...whatever it was on. But as I brought my phone out I groaned a bit. No signal. I’m not sure how that's even possible, now that I’m thinking about it. I wasn’t surprised though, I think I was expecting it? </p><p>	I kept settling back into my corner, it felt...It felt comfortable. I think it was having those two solid things on either side of me. I still felt completely alone, but I felt like maybe I could just...stay there. It didn’t hurt. I could fully feel my isolation, but it was a dull pain. It was a dull ache I think. I can't...I can't remember much, it's hazy...foggy. I felt the panic, the fear still, but it was a dull throb. This corner...it felt right. It felt like I was where I belonged.  I was lonely, Alone, but I didn't hurt. </p><p>	I could feel myself start to drift. I felt my memory of why I was there start to go fuzzy, begin to fade. I could feel the comforting chill of the isolation settling into the hollows of my bones, and I Welcomed it in. I was nearly gone, lost to the pull of the muffling, cloying emptiness. I sunk further into my corner, the two walls welcoming me. I felt the pull of their stability until I was suddenly knocked off balance. The sensation of something...someone, jostling and bumping into me was enough to send the cotton out of my head. I turned to the other person, startled, and they seemed just as shocked. For a minute, neither of us said anything, simply staring at each other in startlingly clear air, shocked. They reached out first, grabbing on firmly to my arm, and I reciprocated, moving to hold onto them. And it was as if we had fallen out of a… a pocket in the air. We...we fell back into the party, the actual party. I could feel the heat and sweat from people, smell the booze, and hear and feel the thrum of the music, bass rattling my teeth. We didn't speak as we pushed through the crowd, bursting out the front door. We were still holding each other.  </p><p>	I’m still close with them. I went back to their place after the party. It wasn't...not like that. Neither of us wanted to be alone. I...I'm terrified of how much I want to go back. It was...It didn't hurt.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Peel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Peel</p><p>Statement of Ingrid Maynerd Regarding an injury they received, transcribed live July 2017</p><p>CW: self mutilation/harm, blood, dermatillomania, hospitals, canon typical spiral content, canon typical flesh content (PLEASE let me know if I've missed anything, this one is a bit heavier on gore than other chapters)</p>
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    <p>Peel</p><p>Statement of Ingrid Maynerd Regarding an injury they received, transcribed live July 2017</p><p>Hello! Oh, do I...do I start now? Yes? Ok, hello! I, uh, I guess you’re more used to, well, somber individuals coming through. Makes sense, if they experienced something akin to me, not a fate I would wish on anyone I assure you, then you probably get a whole lot of trauma here. I guess...I guess we all just process the stuff differently. Personally, I like the...the lying to myself. If I can make my voice cheery and happy, if I can make people around me laugh or feel good, well then maybe I can convince myself that I feel like that too! But...I uh, I guess I should probably try to be truthful. You can’t help me if I’m just going to spin a happy and fine tale. But! Nevertheless, you aren’t my therapist, I’m not here to talk about how I’m dealing with my...experience. I’m here to tell you why I did it. </p><p>	I’m sorry I can’t write this down myself. I guess I technically could, but I couldn’t promise that my...er, my wounds wouldn’t get irritated and start bleeding everywhere. Wouldn't want to have to rush back to the doctor to get new dressings and stitches, they’d probably actually put me in a psych ward at that point. You know, that might actually be good for me, who knows. Anyway, I’m stalling. I guess I just have to figure out where to start at this point? Obviously, the beginning, but where does the beginning start? What counts as the beginning? Let's see here…</p><p>	Nail Polish. That's a good start. I’ve always loved painting my nails. I usually do my fingernails, always done them myself except for a couple special occasions. I don’t normally paint my toenails. I like nail polish because I can run my fingers over my nails, and feel the smooth glossy texture. I like being able to show off bright, happy colors. Those colors always made me feel better, brightened up my day. I loved the idea of being able to match my nails to my outfit. I think it's fascinating how we as humans decorate ourselves. I’ve always liked makeup, nail polish, and fun outfits, but nail polish has always fascinated me. Did you know that painting our nails dates back to 3000 BC? Technically it wasn't actually paint back then, but we’ve been coloring, dying, tinting our nails for thousands of years. Why did we look at the little hard bits at the ends of our fingers and think ‘these are perfect miniature canvases of self-expression and beauty’? I think it's fascinating and extremely fun. It's something small that I can do for myself to make me feel just a little bit better. I...well, I guess it used to be. I’m not sure...well, if you peeled your own nails off because of your nail polish, would you be able to paint them when they grew back? I’m...as funny as it sounds, I think I’m most sad that I won’t be able to match them with my outfit anymore. God, that's a bit pathetic, isn't it?</p><p>	I’ve rambled enough about polish, I’ll get to the point now. Yes. I ripped my nails off. I guess, peeled...would be a more appropriate term. Not for fun, god no, I don't get off on pain or anything like that. But they were...they were chipped. Not in the way you’re thinking, it was...different. I’ve got a thing with chips, you see. I’ve always loved nail polish, yes, but at most a color will last me one, maybe two days. At the first chip, there's nothing I can do to not peel and pick at all my nails until they’re bare. The need to pick at them fills me, till I barely remember where I am. I end up with a pocketful of brightly colored paint chips, waiting for the nearest garbage can. Sometimes I forget them and my laundry looks like a sundae with sprinkles. It’s not that I don’t like how chipped nails look, but I think the tiny imperfection fills me with the need to get rid of it. I want my nails to be smooth, glossy, and how can they be that if they’re chipped? I can’t run my fingers over the hard, smooth, silky surface if there's a bit missing, it just...it doesn't feel right. It's usually subconscious too, and I don’t realize what I’m doing until I’m halfway done. It’s disappointing, of course. Who wants their manicure ruined halfway through the day? </p><p>	I was home alone one evening. My partner had gone out with a few friends, and I had settled down to watch a movie with some popcorn. I was engrossed in the movie when I realized I had been picking at my nails. I’d gotten most of my polish off, so while I grumbled, I figured that I might as well get the rest off as well. I was now focused on my polish, the movie entirely forgotten, as I picked and scraped at my nails, watching the flakes of color fall onto my fluffy blanket. It’s a shame, I really did like that blanket. I had...I had finished picking the last of the color off and was settling back into the couch to get back into the movie when it caught my attention. It was something up near the cuticle on the pointer finger of my right hand. It...It looked for anything to be a chip. Not like you think of when you think of chipped nails though. It was as if the nail itself was polish on my finger, and that part of it had...had flaked off. It’s hard to describe, but it felt the same as when my nail polish got chipped. I ran my finger over it, getting the same feeling as when my polish chips, the need to pick. I ran my finger over the spot again, horrified when my hand started to pick subconsciously at the spot. I grabbed my hand, not wanting to irritate...whatever this was. I looked back up, still holding my hand, and tried to get absorbed in the movie again. It worked for a minute or so...until…</p><p>	I felt a pain shoot through my finger. I jumped, surprised. My hand had started to pick. It had started to tear my nail up from its bed, peeling it away...like...like it was just some sort of lacquer. Of course, it hurt, the pain was immense, probably more than it should've been. But through the pain, there was….there was a need. I needed to get...to get my nails off. They were chipped. They needed to go. And...and so I peeled my nails off. I’ll spare you the bloody details, but needless to say, it took a fair amount of time and cost me a whole lot of pain. Ruined my blanket too. I need to break my habit of letting the peelies just fall wherever I’m sitting. I couldn’t get the blood out of the fluffy fibers. </p><p>	I guess that’s where the story ends. Or, where it would end? It's...It’s hard. I've told this to doctors, therapists, hell I even tried the police for some reason. I don't know. I’m a bit desperate at this point, and a therapist who heard me talk about this recommended you guys. I hadn’t heard of your institute before, but I think...I think my statement belongs here. There was definitely...there was more than just my mind going haywire. I know it. Because just the other day I looked in the mirror and I saw...I saw a chip. Right at the corner of my lips. I can feel it there, scraping against the corner of my mouth. It feels wrong, rough. It didn’t feel like a cut in the skin, or a piece of dead skin flapping around, no. It felt...it felt like my skin was...was hard. Like it was hard paint on top of my cheek muscles, and that the paint had begun to chip away. I’ve started noticing chips other places too. One of my teeth, up near the gum, the skin inside my belly button, there's even one just next to the hairline at the back of my head. There's multiple chips in the spaces between my fingers and toes. I can feel them, grating against the skin around them, somehow rough. I can feel the urge, the need, to pick at them. I’ve started picking. Raw skin coming off in bloody strips, my fingers shaking. I’ve never gotten far. It’s hard to pick without fingernails, and I usually get stopped by my partner. They...they haven't wanted to be around me much, and I can’t blame them. I really should check myself into a psych ward, get some actual help, stop relying on them to break me out of...wherever I go. I think...I think that would be a good idea. They can move on then.</p><p>	The more I pick, the more I peel…. The stronger the need becomes. The harder it is to break me out of...out of it. I’m terrified. I...I want to keep peeling. The pain...it's unbearable. Imagine...well, Imagine peeling your own skin off. There really isn't any comparison? But as much as it hurts, it feels….it feels good. It feels right. I’m fixing something that’s broken, something that’s cracked. It feels so good, peeling, that lately when I’ve been pulled out of it...I’ve found myself actually wanting to continue. The conscious me, not the one who absentmindedly picks at the skin of my lips, or whose hands wander towards their hair, to pick at the skin there. No, the me who hurts, who has to deal with the consequences of the picking, who has had to worry about infection and reopening scabs. The conscious me wants to keep picking. And that terrifies me. Because if I can’t differentiate between the conscious and subconscious...then what does that mean?</p><p>	I’ve been wearing mittens for a while now.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ink</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ink </p><p>Statement of Alastair Rigby Regarding his tattoo artist Apollo Mckay, Given August 2016</p><p>TW: Needles (mentioned), scopophobia, invasion of privacy, canon typical Eye content</p>
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    <p>Ink </p><p>Statement of Alastair Rigby Regarding his tattoo artist Apollo Mckay, Given August 2016</p><p>I’ve been getting tattoos for a while now. My first I got when I was 18, the weekend after my birthday. I’d been saving up, and I was so excited. I’d done a fair amount of research and thinking, so it wasn't a rash decision on content or artist. I don’t want to waste ink talking about that tattoo, or even that artist. If you want a recommendation you can ask me later. Sure, I kept going to that first artist for a while after, and she’s still around. She’s good too. But I moved, and while I loved supporting her, and her beautiful work, I figured that I should look around for another local artist to support. It’d make things easier for me too, not needing to drive three hours any time I wanted a tattoo. That happens a lot, where I’ll get the itch, and I just need to get another one. Half the time now I just go in and tell the artist to do whatever. That’s why I put so much time and energy into finding an artist and sticking with them. I want to get someone who I know and trust, who knows me and the style and aesthetic I’m going for, but who can also be creative. I trust them not to fuck up my skin, and they get someone who’s open to whatever. I’m certainly not made of money or anything, so this doesn't happen extremely often, but nonetheless, I wanted to find an artist closer to me. </p><p>	Anyways, when I first moved I kept going to my old artist while looking for a new one. I actually met Apollo through my old artist. She recommended them, saying that their style was similar to hers and that the two of them were apprentices together. I went in one day to meet Apollo, got coffee with them actually, to talk about stuff. I remember liking their tattoos, and thinking that it was exactly the kind of aesthetic I was going for too. No color, just clear tones of black and grey. Coherent as a whole, but with distinct and unique pieces. I liked that, so I made an appointment. I had an idea of what I wanted, so I wouldn’t be giving them free rein just yet, but I did give them a little creative freedom. I had them draw up a tarot card design, Justice to be exact. The design they came up with was gorgeous, a classic. I had them put it on the outside of my leg, somewhere where I could see it, but also out of the way. I was really happy with it, and that went a good way to solidify my trust in Apollo as a tattoo artist. </p><p>	Now I don’t pay too much attention to what people are wearing. Sure, if it’s really out there I’ll notice, or if I’m specifically looking at their outfit. I’m not completely oblivious. But I couldn’t tell you exactly when Apollo started wearing long sleeves and pants. It didn’t seem like they were trying to cover anything up, but looking back I’m sure that they didn’t want me to see their tattoos. Or what their tattoos were becoming. I do remember when I picked up on that though when they started wearing a turtleneck. It was summer by that point, and while the shop was kept cool, it wasn’t that cold. I remember thinking of a number of off-color jokes I could’ve made about them covering their neck up, but something stopped me. I could see peeking up over the edge of their turtleneck a tattooed eye. It was stylized, but even so, it caught me a little off guard. It felt like it was looking, staring at me. I recovered quickly enough, trying to ignore it, and said hello to them. That day I didn’t have too much of a plan, other than I wanted to have something done on the underside of my forearm. </p><p>	The design that they showed me was a line drawing of a Greek statue, Athena. In the drawing, I could Feel her staring at me, but I liked the drawing and was excited about the tattoo. I figured that I was maybe just a little tired, and tried to shake the feeling off. I watched them put the stencil on, but as they started to ink it I could feel the eyes boring into my own. I know how silly that sounds, but I swear I could feel it. You know that prickling feeling on the back of your neck when you know that someone’s looking at you? Or when you’ve convinced yourself of that? I felt that, along with absolute certainty that the stencil on my arm was Looking at me. It got worse when Apollo actually inked the eyes though. That’s what they started with too. Dove right in, almost….almost hungrily. They had a strange...I guess desperation would be a word to use? I could feel when they were done with the eyes too. Not because I saw them complete the eyes, I had started staring at the ceiling at that point, trying to avoid the gaze. No, I knew they were done with the eyes because they sat back, and sighed. They looked satisfied, almost giddy. They realized that I was looking their way and gave me a grin, and that’s when I noticed that their eyes weren't...weren’t right. They’d always had green, a fairly bright green too, but now they were almost iridescent. That’s not the right word. Apollo’s eyes flashed like a cat’s do in the dark. Those moments where the cat’s eyes seem like they're glowing, and you get freaked out a bit before you realize that it’s just your housepet. But human eyes don’t do that. We don't have that film over our eyes, that only applies to animals that can see in the dark. I think. I remember looking it up afterward. But I know for sure that humans don't have it. Our eyes can't flash like that. But Apollo’s did. </p><p>	They were grinning wider now, asking innocently if I liked the tattoo so far. I was terrified and barely was able to stutter out a question about taking a pause. Apollo just nodded, saying to come back in five. I got up, walking out of the shop, hoping against all hope that I just needed some air. After a bit I did feel better, rationalizing to myself that whatever had happened with Apollo’s eyes must’ve been a trick of the light. When I went back in, there was still a weird feeling in the air, but the tattoo didn’t seem to be staring at me. Within the next couple hours Apollo had finished Athena up, and I was on my way home. No other weird stuff had happened after I came back in, other than Apollo being a tad bit more energetic. But I figured that they had probably had some water and a snack or something. </p><p>	The next time something strange happened was that night. As I was getting ready for bed, making sure that my tattoo was properly wrapped, I felt that prickle at the back of my neck. I could feel someone watching me, and I realized that I somehow knew who it was. I knew that it was Apollo, watching me. I stumbled a bit, slumping down to sit on my bed and I turned my arm over. As I did, I saw two little glints of light, bright green catch the light for a second. I’m not ashamed to say that I shrieked, and buried my arm under the covers. If I could feel my tattoo of Athena Looking at me before, this was the confirmation I needed to know that I wasn’t dehydrated, but that she was. Or rather, Apollo was staring through the eyes of Athena. I could still feel the prickle of eyes and realized that I could feel multiple pairs staring at me. I looked around, frantically, but I couldn't see anything or anyone in my room. That’s when my gaze fell in the mirror and I froze. </p><p>	It didn’t register to me then exactly how many eyes Apollo had tattooed on me. It wasn’t like they had tattooed exclusively eyes on me, or even that it was obvious. But I realized then that in every single tattoo design Apollo had made me, there had been at least one visible eye. Even in designs without people in them, there was always still at least one eye. They hadn’t seemed strange when Apollo had first shown me the stencils, or even months or years later. Until now. Because all of those eyes were staring back at me, glinting as they caught the light with that same animal filter that should’ve been impossible. </p><p>	But I was so far gone from what’s possible and what's not. I ripped through my closet, grabbing a long shirt and pants, and a flannel for good measure. It would be uncomfortable to sleep in, of course, but it would be better than that feeling of being watched. The feeling of knowing that no matter what I could do, I couldn’t ever get away from those eyes. All those eyes. As my mom always reminds me, tattoos are permanent.</p><p> Even though I’d put on long sleeves and long pants, I could still...I could still feel the eyes. I didn’t feel like they were right there anymore, but I could still faintly feel the sense of someone watching me. I got into bed, wrapping myself tightly in blankets and pumping rain sounds into my headphones to try to drown out anything else. I hoped that if I was able to distract myself enough that I’d be able to sleep. I did eventually get to sleep, drifting off into a hellish dreamscape. Complete darkness, myself in a spotlight, surrounded by unblinking flashes from what I knew to be eyes.</p><p>	Those nightmares continue. And the watching too. It isn’t too bad in the daytime, a low buzz almost. I constantly feel the pressure of the eyes etched into my skin, but it gets infinitely worse at night. In the daytime, I can’t see them watching me. I can’t know for sure if the feeling of being watched is coming from my tattoos, or just people surrounding me. But at night, with the rest of the world asleep, it's then that I know exactly who...or what is watching me. It’s then that I occasionally see a glint of iridescent green, light flashing in the darkness. </p><p>	I still have the nightmares too. Every single night. I guess it must've been what it felt like for the very first people, huddled around a fire looking into the night, knowing that they’re being watched by things in the night. Things that mean them harm, but who don’t dare let their own presence be known more than the glint of the firelight in their eyes. I can feel that fear now, one of those deep down fears that once pulled up, sits on your chest like a heavy cat, but without any of the warmth or comfort. Just something settling onto you, gripping you tightly, not letting you go. </p><p>	It feels like I’m being laughed at. When I’m sitting, huddled in my room, completely covered in blankets, terrified. It feels as if my tattoos are watching me and laughing, drinking up my fear. It feels like they’re mocking me for being afraid like they delight in the fact that they can scare me so much. </p><p>	I’ve tried getting the tattoos removed. Of course, I have. And it works, at least in the daytime. The tattoo is gone, and along with it the eyes, there shouldn’t be any way to be watched without a pair of eyes. But at night, it doesn't matter. Just like I can’t cover them up with a long-sleeved shirt, now that I’ve been marked with so, so many eyes, they’re with me forever. Because they were once on my skin, in my skin, the eyes are still there. They still watch. They’ll still glint in the dark if you shine a light on them, and they haven’t left my nightmares. I’ve tried just about everything to get them to go away, save from scratching them out. I haven't done that, but I’m...nearing my breaking point.</p><p>	I haven’t seen Apollo since the last tattoo they put on me, except for one time at the supermarket. I just saw the back of their head as they were turning into another aisle, but I did get a glimpse of the back of their neck, uncovered by clothing this time, but absolutely covered in tattoos of eyes. I could feel those eyes staring at me, feel Apollo staring at me, and just as they disappeared, They Winked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey! <br/>Sorry its been a hot minute since I've posted, I got a little caught up in classes. Not to worry though, I have three documents open and started, as well as a fourth in my head. Hopefully, I'll get back to posting every couple of days, but I might? need to go to once or twice a week. We'll see!</p><p>anyways, let me know what you think! I'm not entirely sure how I feel, to be honest, but I'd love any feedback you have!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trying something new! <br/>If you have suggestions, either for a whole chapter or just critiques, or any other feelings about these don't be afraid to leave a comment! (they're greatly appreciated :) )<br/>If you want to reach me other places, I'm on Instagram @ screaming_pinepples, <br/>and Tumblr under all-eyes-on-me</p></blockquote></div></div>
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